


His Father's Son

by thedevilchicken



Category: GreedFall (Video Game)
Genre: Clothed/Naked, Father/Son Incest, Humiliation, M/M, Object Insertion, Pre-Canon, Punishment, Rape/Non-con Elements, Shame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:34:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27810814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/pseuds/thedevilchicken
Summary: Constantin doesn't look like his father.
Relationships: Constantin d'Orsay/Prince d'Orsay
Comments: 2
Kudos: 33
Collections: Naughty List 2020





	His Father's Son

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chicago_ruth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chicago_ruth/gifts).



Constantin knows why he deserves this. 

He doesn't look much like his father and he knows that without reservation because even now, people like to tell him so. _Oh, Constantin, you do look like your mother!_ they say. Or, _My lord, I would have never known you were the Prince's son!_ They don't mean it as a compliment: his mother is willowy and fair and shrewd, but nobody at court would say they trust her with their friendship, let alone affairs of state. His father is tall and broad and forceful, stern-faced and strong-jawed, regal and strikingly handsome, and everything that Constantin is not. The only thing they share is their light eyes and a look in them that he sees sometimes, in the mirror, after. Without that bitter sharpness, he might wonder if he's his father's son at all. As it is, he doesn't wonder; he knows. 

He knows, too, when it's going to happen, much like he knew tonight. His father sends a message to request his presence - not that a request he sends can be refused - but he always knows before that. He's say something untoward at dinner, share a bawdy joke with his cousin in a corridor, stumble when he's training with his sword, or any of a thousand other things, and he'll look up to see the hard expression on his father's face that tells him what he should expect as surely as the message does. And then, that night, he'll go to where he's told to - his father's study, or the audience chamber, the library, the armoury, the palace roof in the open air. He'll go there and he'll wait for as long as it takes for the Prince to arrive. Then he does whatever he's told to.

It was the study tonight. The message came to him on a silver tray as he was changing clothes after his fencing lesson, and once the thread of dread had curled its way through every part of his insides, he found he couldn't shake it off again all afternoon. He had the message in his pocket as he took a turn about town with his cousin, as he read his letters, as he dined. He had it there over his heart as he went down the corridor outside his room, long after everybody in the palace should have been asleep. He went up the stairs, not coy or quiet, because as much as he detests this, he won't creep like a mouse and let everyone who sees him think he's fearful of his father; it's not fear he feels, just resentment. The message in his pocket reminded him of that.

He turned the handle and pushed open the door, expecting to sit there and wait for an hour or more, as usual, while he told himself his father was a busy man and didn't make him wait on purpose, though he's long suspected that's the case. There was no wait for his arrival, though; the Prince d'Orsay was sitting at his desk. 

"Father," he said, his surprise very poorly concealed, and he made an awkward bow that also failed to cover it. 

"Constantin," his father replied, though he didn't look up, and so Constantin loitered there in the doorway, at a loss for what to do. Finally, though, his father looked up, frowning. "Honestly," he said. "Come in before you let all the warm air out." So he closed the door and he leaned against it, hands tucked in behind his back as if he could look nonchalant at a time like that. 

"How long do you intend to make me wait?" his father asked, and Constantin didn't quite catch his wince in time to keep it from his face. It was his own fault that the Prince was taking that tone with him, because he knew what he was supposed to do and the only excuse he could muster, even if he couldn't quite bring himself to say it out loud, was that finding the room already occupied had thrown his usual routine off track. He put it right quickly, though; as his father returned to his papers, Constantin sat down to remove his boots. He stood again to take off his doublet, his shirt, folding them with some degree of care though not exactly a great deal of skill. He pushed down his breeches, underwear, boothose, stockings, until he was standing naked on the exquisite rug that had probably been a diplomat's gift from some far-flung place that neither of them remembered. Then he shivered as he stood there, naked, regretful that he actually had let some of the room's warmth escape. 

When finally his father looked up at him again, it was not with approval. It wasn't even with disapproval - it was indifference, which Constantin has always found worse. 

"Come here," he said, so Constantin went to him, dutifully if not willingly. He patted the desktop with one large hand. "Bend over here. Make yourself useful." 

He bent over the desk, leaning down on his forearms with his head hanging low, his elbow near the paperwork and his bare arse in the air. And as he leaned there, sick anticipation clawing in his gut, maybe he wasn't sure what he should expect precisely but he knew what genre of thing it would be. His father would ignore him for a few minutes longer, until he'd finished what he was doing, and then he'd do something Constantin would wish he hadn't. But this time, he didn't wait; the Prince took his weighty crystal inkwell and, with no further ado, he set it down on the flat of Constantin's bare back, in between his shoulderblades. It was cold, and he shivered, and he felt the inkwell take a precarious wobble as his stomach churned, and he understood the implication that he must stay still or spill his father's good writing ink all over himself and the desk and the floor and the rug and probably ruin the paperwork. 

He didn't want to guess at how disappointed his father would have been and in a reckless moment he almost wanted to find out what would happen; would he have left him there abruptly and sent someone to clean before it stained too badly? Would he have made him mop it up with his own clothes? Maybe he'd have made him use his mouth, until his tongue and lips were black with pigment and he'd have to try to convince his worried cousin that he'd drunk the whole bottle as some kind of idiotic dare - he supposed he'd been know to do worse. However, he opted for the path of least resistance. He stayed still. 

It was a letter, Constantin thought, as he watched his father write, dipping his pen in the balancing inkwell between phrases. He signed his name _d'Orsay_ when he was finished then set the pen down on the desk. He watched him fold the paper. He watched him close it with wax and his personal seal. Then he held the seal in his hand and he looked at it; it's a heavy thing, with a thick, bulbous handle to it that's probably gold given its particular shine in the lamplight, perhaps five inches long in sum and tapering to a thinner stem just by the Orsay crest itself. He watched his father wipe off the excess wax then reach into a drawer just out of sight, and he came back with a jar of oil that he set down on the desk. Given that oil's primary usage, and Constantin's intimate knowledge of that use, he swiftly understood what would follow. He felt his balls tighten. He felt his cheeks flush hot. 

The Prince dipped the seal's gold handle into the oil, which made it glisten when he removed it. Then he pushed back his chair just a little and reached over to his side, to Constantin's bare arse, the cheeks of which he spread quite easily with his free hand. Then he pushed the thick, rounded handle against Constantin's exposed hole, cold and slick with oil. He pushed it in, perfunctory about it, quick, until he returned to his letters with Constantin sure the only part of it that still remained outside his body was the Orsay crest itself. He clenched involuntarily around its handle and, to his fucking shame, he felt his cock begin to stiffen. He supposed, though, at least if his father could see the crest between his cheeks, he'd know that he was his. 

His father wrote three more letters. He didn't rush; he considered his language carefully and Constantin had to grudgingly admit his penmanship was excellent, though he supposed he had other more pressing things on his own mind. Between each letter, he retrieved the seal from Constantin's arse, his fingertips against his rim making Constantin's traitorous cock take renewed interest. He wiped off the oil on a handkerchief and used it to seal his letter, then he applied fresh oil and pushed it back in, gave it a firm tap with his forefinger that made Constantin's cock stiffen further. He was so hard for so long that he ached between his legs and his face was as hot as the fire in the hearth. He couldn't move for the inkwell sitting on his back and he felt his cock start to leak from the tip and then, _then_ , finally, his father removed the seal for one last letter and didn't put it back into him again. He set it down on the desk instead as Constantin's inside roiled with trepidation, out of its usual place and in Constantin's direct line of sight - he couldn't understand that fact as anything other than intentional, so he could see it and remember precisely where it had lately been inserted. 

When his father pushed back his chair, Constantin couldn't see what he was doing but he supposed he knew from the familiar rustle of fabric. He'd watched him undo his breeches to pull out his cock on numerous occasions - sometimes he was soft when he did so and he had Constantin kneel between his feet to take him in his mouth and he'd let his thick but as yet flaccid manhood rest there heavily against his tongue, until his jaw ached and his was ready to make use of him. Sometimes he'd be hard instead, huge and flushed and almost straining with arousal, his blunt tip exposed as he drew his foreskin back. Constantin had sucked a number of men's cocks by that point in his life but he'd learned how with his father's, by tonguing his slit and lapping wetly at the head, taking him in so deep he gagged around him but that hadn't made him stop. He'd learned to please him until he released into his open mouth, and he'd spread his come over Constantin's tongue with the pad of his thumb, or the length of his first two fingers. But he didn't think that was what was on his father's mind tonight. 

He heard him stand. He saw him move. He went around the desk in front of him, his breeches pushed down just past the curve of his arse and his big cock hard and bobbing lewdly with each step he took. Constantin remembered nights he'd spent shamefacedly tonguing at his father's hole while he idly perused his correspondence, or down on his knees to suck just the tip of his cock with his hands tied tight behind his back. But he stood there at the opposite side of the desk and leaned over to retrieve the oil and Constantin watched him thumb his cock down to an angle at which he could slip the first few inches down into the jar. He saw the tip pressed to the jar's glass bottom and when he pulled it back out and let it jut up, the oil ran down over the inches that hadn't fit inside and down to glisten at his balls. Constantin bit his lip as he looked at it, hating himself for the spike of arousal it sent through him. He pressed his hands hard to the desk and tried to will his cock not to react, but the truth was it was much too late for that. He supposed he'd been trained quite well. 

His father moved again. He went behind him and he felt his big hands spread his cheeks as far as they would go, so far it almost hurt and he felt the rim of his oiled hole pull open just a little, exposing him to his father's damned appraising eye. He knew his father's cock would fit inside him, because he'd done that to him so many times before. He'd fucked him bent over the parapet, in the open air under the stars, until Constantin had come over the stonework; he remembered the texture of the masonry as he'd knelt to lick it clean. He'd sat back on his seat in the empty audience chamber and had Constantin, stripped to his bare skin, sit down on his cock and fuck himself on it until he came without so much as a finger laid upon his own erection. He'd had him in his bed, on his knees, from behind, and pushed up hard against a wall in the middle of a party, quick and deep with his breath against his neck, just out of other people's sight. He remembers dancing afterwards, smiling, making polite conversation with his father's semen leaking from his aching hole. 

His father's cock fit inside him, though he couldn't say it fit inside him _well_. Constantin has had other men's cocks, but he'd learned how to take it with his father's. They don't really look alike in that respect, either; his father is long and thick and while he knows his own is a good size, a perfectly respectable size, his father's feels almost like the time that he had two men take him both at once, just to see if he could fit them in. His hole had still been sore and his rim still slightly swollen when his father had summoned him the next night, enough that it was obvious what he'd been doing. He had him bend down over the desk that time and by the time he'd left, his cheeks had hurt even more than his hole did. 

That was what he did, though: he put his cock inside him. His father spread his cheeks and pushed against his rim. His father's slick cock opened him up, his hole tight like a sheath to a sword around him. He felt huge, hot, his clothes rubbing maddeningly against Constantin's bare skin, his toes digging into the plush rug, the fucking inkwell still between his shoulderblades until he felt it lifted away and set aside and replaced by one of his father's big, hot hands, pressing there to keep him down. He hated how it felt, knowing if he struggled it just wouldn't make a difference as he gave up so much in terms of size and strength, age and experience. If he struggled, it would only make it worse; he'd slap him, maybe, bruise him, pull his hair until his eyes stung from it, fuck him face to face with his hands around his throat just to prove he could, or stick his fingers in and press against that place that Constantin couldn't bear for anyone to touch, until he bucked and writhed and begged for him to let him come. He didn't like to beg, not with tears in his eyes and his father's fingers pushed up into his arse. So, he didn't struggle. He very rarely did. 

He didn't struggle and so, in the end, it was over relatively quickly. A few minutes of fucking was all it took, the force of his father's thrusts jarring the big wooden desk slightly out of place and Constantin reached out one hand to keep the ink from spilling, not that he really cared about his father's letters. His father held him down with that hand between his shoulderblades and had him hard enough that he'd be feeling it for days. Then he grunted, bucked in deep and came in him. Constantin felt the pulse of it in his taut rim and, when he pulled out, he felt the telltale trickling of come that leaked out from his hole. 

His father rearranged his clothes and left him there abruptly; he strode out of the room with one last hard glance as if to say he couldn't quite believe he'd had to do this yet again, and Constantin refrained from telling him he really hadn't _had to_ do it. There's no law compelling him and even if there were, he's the Prince d'Orsay: he makes the laws of the Merchant Congregation and he is not required by them to fuck his one remaining son. He said nothing, though, just watched him leave and slam the door as he still leaned there over the desk. And then, once he was alone, he moved. 

His father's seal had no need for oil now; the semen seeping out of him eased its way in as Constantin pushed it back inside himself. He tensed his hole around it, squeezed it, made his aching rim flutter with the chill of it. He pushed there lightly, two fingers at the Orsay crest between his cheeks as he slipped his other hand between his thighs to stroke himself. His cock had been so hard for so long that his fingers on it almost hurt, but he didn't stop. He fucked himself with his father's seal and made himself come over his father's desk, with a gasping, needy sound so very like a sob that the Prince d'Orsay would have been ashamed. He found he couldn't have cared less. 

Then, he cleaned up, until no trace of what had happened was left at all. Then, he went back downstairs and back into his room. That's where he is now, sitting cross-legged on his bed with all his clothes in a heap on the floor just inside the door. That's where he is, naked, as he adds tonight's summons to the stack of them he's collected over the years and keeps tied up with a ribbon under a loose board. He's added a date to each of them, in his own spidery hand that can't compare to his father's. He's added notes, too, just so he won't forget what happened. 

Tonight's note says, wryly, _I bet my brother never had to use the family seal to feel he was our father's son_. And when he looks at himself in the mirror there across the room, their one likeness strikes him. He definitely looks bitter just around his eyes. 

He looks nothing like his father. His hair is too fair and his chin is too pointed and he'd need to be a good six inches taller if he wanted favourable comparisons. He'd have to be good with a sword, not just cutting remarks, and he'd have to give up fucking almost any man who'll have him just so he can pretend the ache in his hole isn't from his father's cock. Sometimes, he can almost pretend he doesn't hate him for it. 

He looks nothing like his father, and that's why he deserves this. He looks nothing like his father, but he knows his brother did and he just isn't him. He's not sure how he could come close, and so he doesn't try to. 

In the morning, he'll smile and laugh and joke with his cousin like nothing at all has happened here. 

But now, he sits in his bed and he wonders if fucking him ever makes his father feel better, or if it just makes them both feel worse.


End file.
